


wildflower, fingertips on me

by larkspurgine



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkspurgine/pseuds/larkspurgine
Summary: The Exarch clears his throat. You turn to face him and raise an eyebrow. “I can’t help but notice—” he motions vaguely at you, “your back. Would you like assistance with that?”Even a god-killing, eikon-slaying, realm-saving Warrior of Light and Darkness like you doesn’t have arms long enough to reach his own back. Lucky for you, someone decides then to visit your room.Set after the battle against Sineaters in Lakeland.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Reader, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 17
Kudos: 92





	wildflower, fingertips on me

The Crystarium is busy. 

Instead of the usual liveliness of trade, however, it greets you with the grim kind of rush that you are wholly too familiar with. From a distance you spot chirurgeons going in and out of Spagyrics, dragging trolleys full of potions and whatever kit they can bring with them. You hear amaros wail as their trainers soothe them. There are carts everywhere, creaking under the weight of wounded mounts and men alike. Those still possessed of the strength and two good legs support one another as their tracks leave puddles of red mixed with rainwater. 

Somewhere from above you — from the Mean, you think — you hear loud bells constantly ringing in alarm. Though the immediate danger has passed, you know the struggle is not over. Whatever first aid you and yours have administered in the field are but temporary in order to keep going in the thick of battle. Now it’s all in the hands of the gods and chirurgeons. You send a quick prayer to Hydaelyn for whatever good that will do.

The smell and taste of metal invade your senses. You try to press on, at the very least to check in on Thancred. He’s been reckless lately, a lot more so when his young charge is involved, though you are not one to lecture. You can’t, for you’re the one who can taste the Light in the back of your tongue. 

You’ve known something was wrong for a while now. Y’shtola’s suspicions merely confirmed the conclusion to which you had already arrived at. That moment in Holminster Switch — when you banished the Light and brought back the night — you felt it. So sensitive to aether from all your practices and hobbies, there was no way you didn’t notice the foreign pulse in your chest. But then, the Exarch knelt before you, and…

There was no way you could say no.

The Crystal Exarch. You know little of his identity except for the fact that he is a man who gave hope and home to people living in a dying world. Though it tires you to play the job of a hired blade, you appreciate the hospitality he has given you. 

You are not so selfless to not enjoy his appreciation  _ of _ you, either. For the first time in a long time, you are not just some nameless adventurer who happened to be at the right time and the right place with the right skills. People see you killing monsters from their nightmares and they regard you as this grand, self-sufficient hero of eld, so ‘tis not often for them to offer you help without you asking, even when you’re fighting on their behalf. Thus, when you do receive it unprompted — by way of giving you your own space in the Crystarium, guiding you in your journeys, standing by your side in battle, or simply making you food — you think you can be excused for wanting to trust him.

A sudden pang of pain disturbs you from your thoughts. A chirurgeon had just bumped into your injured side in her hurry, mumbling her sorries as she runs off to tend to a patient. You recognize the figure on the bed to be Thancred, still conscious and struggling, screaming at the help to  _ “not be treated like an invalid!”  _ You smile knowing he will be alright.

“Should worry about yourself first, you know,” you hear Ardbert say. 

“I know,” you mumble under your breath, conscious of the fact that you shouldn’t be talking to an incorporeal form in public lest you get whisked off for a thorough check-up.

You grab some first aid kit from the table laid out in front and — despite Chessamile’s insistence to attend to you — head to your room in the Pendants. You can’t see yourself right now but judging from the manager’s reaction as you check in, you probably look exactly like how you feel. 

Finally in the privacy of your own room, you strip off your mud- and blood-soaked armor, leaving only the thin pair of pants you wear underneath. The dining table becomes something resembling a makeshift medical workstation. You take a seat and lay down the ointment and bandages you had procured from Spagyrics in front of you, as well as the bucket of water you had fetched from the communal bath just before retiring. 

You dampen a soft cotton cloth and start dabbing at your wounds. First, the rather large laceration across your stomach. Some would say it looks almost fatal, but you are not one for exaggeration. Then you move on to the little cuts on your arms and shoulders. You roll up your pants to tend to your legs only to find more bruises than scrapes. Good.

You can feel your back sting. You know you need to take care of that, too. But even a god-killing, eikon-slaying, realm-saving Warrior of Light and Darkness like you doesn’t have arms long enough to reach his own back. In your exhaustion you contemplate leaving it be. You will just have to apologize to the manager for turning the bed sheet pink when you leave tomorrow and hope you don’t get an infection.

As you reach for the salve jar, you notice Ardbert standing by the window with a pensive look on his face. He has his brows furrowed even more than usual and is staring intently at the ground. 

“Hey,” you call out to him. When he looks up, you point to your back using your thumb. “Any chance you might suddenly be able to hold and touch things? I could use some help,” you say in jest to lighten the mood.

Somehow that makes him scrunch up his face even more. You think you can see  _ tears  _ in his eyes. 

Baffled at his reaction, you move to reach out and console him, when you hear a soft knocking coming from outside the room. 

You open the door only to find the Exarch waiting at the threshold. His mouth is ajar in an almost comical way. It takes a full second before you become aware of your current state. 

Less than half-dressed with pink splotches of half-washed blood all over your arms and torso; a big, raw and ugly gash across your middle; black and blue bruises littering your skin. The Exarch seems to be frozen in place and you don’t blame him. You can only imagine what a sore sight you must be right now.

“Ah, sorry, I was just…” you trail off. For a lack of better words, you open the door wider and motion for him to come in. 

“No!” he exclaims. He shuffles awkwardly into the room. “No, it’s— it’s me who has to apologize. For intruding. And for having to involve you in yet another battle that isn’t yours to fight.” His voice smooths back down to his usual velvety, aristocratic tone. “Chessamile told me you refused her help despite looking pale as a ghost. The obvious aside, are you alright, my friend?”

You nod. “Getting there,” you say. You look away from the Exarch to examine the mess you made on the table. ‘Tis not your finest handiwork.

The Exarch clears his throat. You turn to face him and raise an eyebrow. “I can’t help but notice—” he motions vaguely at you, “your back. Would you like assistance with that?”

“Oh,” you stammer, caught off-guard by the offer. “Yes, I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”

You resume your claim on one of the stools. Once settled, you observe the Exarch as he makes ready. He unhooks his staff and sets it down by the dining table. Your eyes follow the mosaic of his crystal hand, the dim light of the room reflecting ever so slightly. It is as beautiful as it is foreign. With both hands he dips the cotton cloth into the bucket, wrings the excess water out and takes a few steps to position himself behind you. You feel the first press where it pricks between your shoulder blades. It is— bliss. Slowly but surely the tension goes out of your body as you let yourself relax. 

“I hope this is fine?” he asks, soft and low. 

This close, his voice has a raspy quality to it. You wonder what he would sound like singing old bard’s songs. You imagine he’d be good at that.

“Warrior?”

You hadn’t realized you are yet to reply to the Exarch’s concern. “Yes, that’s fine. Really good, actually,” you admit. 

It registers to you too late that the words came out much breathier than is appropriate in present company. Judging by the long pause of action behind you, you think the Exarch may have thought the same. Embarrassment heats your face.

From the corner of your vision you spot Ardbert giving you an amused look. You want to wipe that smirk off his face. Instead, you narrow your eyes at him and hope that conveys enough, though you can’t resist feeling relieved that whatever gloomy disposition he was in has been quashed. Even if it’s at your expense.

The Exarch finally resumes his ministrations. “Good,” he says, still so soft-spoken. 

You sense the gentle swabbing go lower down your back, meticulously covering each stinging cut and crusting blood. The next touch lands feather-light just above your coccyx. You jerk slightly forward in reflex.

“Does that hurt?”

You shake your head. “No, just,”  _ sensitive, _ “ticklish.” 

He lets out a small chuckle at that. Finished with his current task, the Exarch takes a few steps to lay down the now-pink cloth on the rim of the water bucket. You were about to reach for the salve when he beats you to it. “Please, allow me,” he begs.

He moves behind you again, but this time it is the mint-like coolness of ointment that kisses your skin. ‘Tis the kind that stops bleeding and hastens recovery, or so you were told. His touch is careful, way more so than any other physician who has attended to you, and gods know there are plenty of those. One by one you feel each aching spot get covered by the soothing gel. 

It belatedly occurs to you that being in such a vulnerable state with someone whose identity you do not know is probably not the world’s most brilliant idea. Though then again, there is something about the Exarch that seems all too familiar. Something about his presence that keeps you at ease but on fire at the same time. That thought is interrupted when yet again a cool sensation right above your tailbone sends you jolting.

The Exarch laughs. “Who knew the Warrior of Darkness would be so ticklish,” he muses. 

You huff in mock-annoyance. “Well, bugger me, you’ve found my weak spot.” 

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me, o’ great hero,” he replies, all too quick to play along. Charming.

He decides then to switch his attention to your arms, applying the salve to all the places that hurt. You have half a mind to tell him you can manage this on your own. But his crystalized touch is unnaturally calming, his scent a wonderful mix of lavender and gunmetal, and you are a tired adventurer with heavy burdens to bear.

Gently, he guides you to turn around on your stool and face him. The Crystal Exarch is not a tall man, but sitting down like this, he is a full head taller than you. Inquisitive by nature as you are, you try to take a peek under the hood, however there is nothing more for you to find.

You know you are not being subtle with your gaze. The small smile that graces the Exarch’s face indicates he knows what you were trying to do.

You shrug. “I can’t help it,” you offer by way of explanation with a cheeky smile to boot.

“I know,” he says. He continues after a pause with a tremble to his voice, “And I am sorry that I cannot share this secret with you.” 

He cups your cheek with his crystal palm. Cool, uneven ridges on your heated skin. Still angled towards him, your eyes focus on his plump lips as they slightly part. In your muddled mind you half expect him to close the distance. Instead he pulls his hand away, leaving you with only the ghost of a crystal sensation on your face and lingering thoughts.

He’s still smiling at you. Though you cannot see his face in its entirety, something about his expression seems all too sad. Your heart aches at the sight. Then he opens his mouth, showing a glimpse of perfectly lined teeth, and says, “You should have gotten these looked after in Spagyrics. They would’ve been able to do much more than I. Prescribe some painkillers, even.” His fingers lightly trace your upper arm, careful to not press on your wound but clear enough to make his point.

“There were a lot of men and women injured. I’m used to this. I didn’t want them to worry over nothing,” you reply.

“‘Tis not nothing. Not if it’s you,” he says. Then quietly, so quietly ‘tis almost like a whisper that you weren’t meant to hear, “Not to me.” 

His words settle like rocks in your gut.

Your eyes follow the Exarch’s fingers again as his fluttering touches fade from your arm. With the jar steady in his mortal hand, he scoops another dollop of the cream. This time he smears it across the shallow cut on your chest right above your heart. The unevenness of his crystal fingers leave invisible marks on your skin, ones you know you will replay in your head. It feels like time is moving in slow motion.

You realize that it is just you and him. Alone. You’re not sure when Ardbert had made himself scarce but he is no longer in the room. Now, not even your ghost of a companion is here to distract you from the fact that you are sitting here, nearly in the nude, and the Exarch is nursing your wounds with a tenderness less like a chirurgeon on the job and more like— 

You are not unfamiliar with intimacy, but it is a luxury that you have not indulged in a long time. It has become difficult to be vulnerable with other people as you and your deeds have become more renown. For all the tales of your bravery, you have not come this far by being reckless.

Dazedly, you wonder if he can feel your rapidly increasing pulse. You look away and focus on steading the inhale, exhale of your breaths. 

You shouldn’t read anything more into this. The Exarch is being gentle because that’s just what people do to the wounded. If you try to find extra meaning in his actions then, well, that’s a conversation with yourself you’ll just have to have another day.

As is wont, your feeble attempt at staying calm doesn’t last long.

The Exarch is once again on his knees in front of you. But this time there isn’t even a yalm of distance between you two. His body is lodged between your legs, a crystal arm resting on your left thigh, barely any pressure. Faintly you can feel his breath on your skin. Your oh-so-hyuran brain goes to a primal, juvenile place before realizing that, instead of closing the gap with his head, he merely wipes clean the now-bleeding-again gash across your stomach.

He coats his fingers with the salve again, but pauses ilms away from your stomach to warn, “Forgive me. This may burn a little.” 

The warning was not unwarranted. You hiss at the contact, medication stinging where it meets the rawest part of the laceration. You are rather glad for it provided a distraction to an increasingly embarrassing train of thought.

The Exarch wipes his hands clean on the sides of his robe. He then grabs the roll of bandage on the table, close enough for him to reach without moving from where he is right now — between your legs, your traitorous mind supplies — and starts unwinding the tape. His hands close in on your side. You lift up your arms slightly to give him access. He wraps the bandage around your stomach, rolling it across your front, then moves closer, nose nearly brushing your chest, arms looping around you not unlike an embrace, the fabric of his robe leaving goose pimples on your skin at the contact. He does two loops of it around your abdomen before raising the roll to his mouth, cutting it to an end with his teeth.

He repeats the exercise a couple more times. Cutting smaller pieces of the hempen bandage and applying them to the worst of your wounds. Some on your bare chest. A loop around your upper arm. Your mind must be playing tricks on you because every touch of his lingers and sears on your skin. You secretly lament when he has to move away to cover the cuts on your back.

“All done,” he says, tapping you on your shoulder. 

You clear your throat, only now realizing how dry it is. “Thank you,” you respond. With a heavy grunt you rise on your feet. Your hands reach for the mess on the table before the Exarch interrupts you.

“I will clean up, so please, rest,” he offers kindly. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you protest.

He chuckles, a bright, ringing sound. “Oh but I want to. If something you require is within my capacity then you will always have my assistance.”

“Is that payment for saving your world?”

“Mayhaps,” he starts, “though I suppose it is more of a selfish wish. A wish to be a part of your history, no matter how small that may be.” He looks down and smiles with a melancholy that you do not understand.

A moment passes between you two. Like this, the Exarch seems too small, as if he can disappear without so much a whimper. The thought chills you to your bones.

You know not of what the future holds. You cannot guarantee safety nor salvation. You are but an adventurer, trying his godsdamned best to do what’s right. So you gather his hands, flesh and not, in your palms, and promise: “I won’t forget you.”

The Exarch looks struck by your words. If you were more daring, you would choose the moment to close the gap between you and embrace him in your arms. Alas there appears to be a limit to your supposedly-unending bravery. You loosen your grasp on him and bid him goodnight. 

Lying in your bed, you listen to the soft sounds of the Exarch’s movements and fall asleep to the rhythm of it all. 

You dream of a crystal hand, cool and caring and familiar, smoothing your worries away.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> yeah, ardbert yeeted himself out of there. it was getting kind of awkward. even for a ghost.
> 
> i like to think the exarch fixed your gear as well before leaving.
> 
> find me on [twitter @tealeafwhispers](https://twitter.com/tealeafwhispers) crying over shadowbringers!


End file.
